PTSD
by lady of scarlet
Summary: The team helps Garcia deal with post traumatic stress. Post-Penelope, Hurt/Comfort, GEN no shipping , Garcia-Focused, mild language and mentions of violence, Garcia POV, Prentiss POV, Morgan POV, one-shot, challenge, complete.


**Title:** PTSD

**Characters:** Garcia-Focused, Prentiss, Morgan, team.

**Rating:** FRT

**Warnings/Spoilers:** Gen, H/C, mild profanity, angsty and unholiday-related, with unholiday-like content, and brief mentions of wrapping paper and naughty lists so it can constitute a holiday fic. Spoilers for _Penelope_.

**Summary: **The team helps Garcia deal with post traumatic stress.

**A/N:** This was originally written specifically for the wonderful _patch_tank_ during a Criminal Minds Holiday gift exchange (December 2008), and is therefore tailor-made to amuse her and fit her request (gen, Garcia-focused H/C, with shoulder massage by Morgan, favourite book discussion and sharing a hotel room with Emily) but I thought I may as well post it elsewhere now that the exchange is over in hope that someone else may also find it enjoyable. R&R results in my undying devotion.

**Disclaimer:** All characters contained herein are the property the TPTB, whom I worship. I am grateful to play in their sandbox.

* * *

Monday brought the first indication of change.

Prentiss twirled a pen in thought before responding with a nod, "Vonnegut's one of my favourites. I must have read _Slaughterhouse-Five_ a hundred times."

"Yeah, my man Vonnegut knew how to make sci-fi come alive," Morgan agreed wholeheartedly, enjoying the rare moment of relaxation with his team before they had to head out on the next case. "Same with Isaac Asimov, the man was a genius. How 'bout you Reid?" he asked, already anticipating the answer.

"Voltaire," the kid replied without hesitation. Typical. He really had to get out more.

"Come on Reid, something a little more recent!" Prentiss begged, reading Morgan's mind.

"James Joyce's _Ulysses_ has its merits," he offered innocently. Morgan chuckled, the kid was a lost cause.

"Jayj?" he inquired with a tilt of his head.

"Hmm, Nicholas Sparks," JJ replied nonchalantly after a moment's consideration and immediately received a raised eyebrow from Reid. "What can I say? I'm a romantic."

Hotch came through the glass doors and walked toward their desks, Rossi trailing behind and detouring to his own office with a stack of notebooks.

"How 'bout it Hotch, favourite author?" Morgan asked as he got close enough to hear.

"Voltaire—hands down."

"Ha!" Reid accused pointedly.

Morgan laughed, tossing a crumpled up piece of paper at Reid who feigned offense before throwing it back with a grin.

"Morgan, Prentiss, I'd like to see you in my office. Everyone else, wheels up in thirty."

He and Prentiss exchanged glances as JJ made a mock 'you're in trouble now' face.

The walk toward Hotch's office brought with it an ominous silence.

He couldn't remember having done anything overtly inappropriate lately, but Hotch wasn't making eye contact and that was never a good sign. Bad news. It had to be bad news.

It could be case-related, but why keep it from the rest of the team?

As he and Prentiss trekked up the stairs, trading curious looks along the way, he was beginning to feel the pull of nostalgia, ushering him back to school years spent in the principal's office. Only this time his boss wasn't the enemy and there were no tacks on the chairs or lewd pictures on a blackboard.

Hotch held open his door and waited until they were both inside to close it, motioning them to sit down.

Morgan ran through scenarios in his mind. Had he left the coffee machine empty this morning? Hotch's evasive behaviour was inconsistent with a trivial concern like coffee. Though the man _did_ like his coffee.

Taking a seat at his desk, Hotch looked at both agents contemplatively for a moment before nodding, seemingly confirming his decision to bring them here.

"I have a special assignment for the two of you," he began as they took their seats across from him. "Over the weekend there was a double homicide in the city. An elderly couple was murdered during a botched B&E robbery attempt. Daniel and Maria Jacobi." Hotch paused, gauging their reactions.

Morgan was slightly perplexed at the relevance of Hotch's story to the BAU. He hadn't heard about any murders over the weekend.

Prentiss seemed to share his confusion, asking, "Sir, do you want us to look into it? Locate the perpetrator?"

"No. That won't be necessary. He's already been taken into custody. He was high on psychedelics—these things happen. More to the point, the homicide occurred two floors down from Garcia's apartment. Both victims were shot." That was definitely bad news. Morgan could only imagine how upset his girl would be over something that close to home.

"I've spoken to Garcia since the incident," Hotch continued, "and she assures me that she's fine."

"You don't believe her," Morgan surmised, wondering why she hadn't called him on the weekend to talk about it.

"Post Traumatic Stress is a tricky thing. She seems to have coped well since Battle, but we can't risk ignoring the fact that this occurrence may act as a trigger and compromise her emotional stability. I have every confidence in Garcia's ability to move past this, but she'll need our support. Has she spoken about the incident with either of you?"

He had just assumed that she would come to him if she needed him. He shook his head in response.

"How about her shooting, did she speak to either of you privately about it after the case was closed?"

She'd mentioned it in passing, sure, but she hadn't gone into any detail after the fact and he wasn't about to push her. He figured she must have found closure in his death and moved on, or confided in someone else. She wasn't the type to hold on to things like that.

"Not explicitly, no," Prentiss offered.

"After Battle, I offered to give her time off and insisted on a psych evaluation to help her through it, but she declined. She seemed to be coping well, so I dismissed it." His voice dropped an octave, betraying his regret, "I should have pressed her harder. But it's too late for that now. I don't want her to think that we doubt her abilities on the job, which is why I'm only including the two of you in this—though I'm sure the others will figure it out for themselves. You know how important it is to be focused in the field; one slipup could cost you your life. As a team we are responsible for each other just as much as ourselves. We can't risk loosing her to her inner demons."

Morgan could see that there was something Hotch wasn't telling them.

Had Garcia been acting differently lately? She seemed fine. Maybe Hotch was still sore from loosing Elle and Gideon and was overreacting.

"What's our assignment sir?" Prentiss asked.

"We're headed to LA this morning. We need Garcia to checkout the victim's hard drive _before_ it's removed from the crime scene and provide technical support while we're there. Unfortunately that means she'll have to accompany us in person. I want the two of you to keep an eye on her for the duration of the case. Just let her know she has our support."

With that sentiment in mind, they stood and left.

Leaning against the wall outside Hotch's office, Morgan wondered at the validity of Hotch's concern, determined to find out if his goddess truly wasn't doing as well as he thought. As if by divine intervention, the glass doors suddenly opened to announce her arrival.

She waltzed through the doors and to her office, looking as fabulous as ever and perfectly composed.

Something was missing though, and he couldn't quite place it.

White blouse, black skirt, heels. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun.

He paused in consideration before it hit him.

_Color_.

That's what was missing.

Gone were the red flower hair clips, rainbow knitted sweaters and layers of green glass-bead necklaces. There wasn't a pink ribbon in sight.

This could be serious.

He tried to think back and pinpoint the moment the colors disappeared.

Hotch was suddenly at his side, seeming to notice the same uncharacteristic absence of color and Morgan had to ask, "How did I not see this before?"

"Sometimes it's easier to profile strangers and take our abilities for granted. What's happening to those closest to us isn't always as obvious as we'd like to think. Don't blame yourself. Just keep an eye on her," Hotch added sympathetically, patting him on the shoulder before heading back down to the bullpen.

She _had_ been acting different lately…

_No_, he shook his head resolutely. He was being ridiculous and taking her wardrobe far too seriously.

Hotch was wrong. Garcia would be fine. A little phased maybe, but she'd bounce back. She always bounced back.

He confidently made his way to her office and stood in the doorway, wanting her to ease his mind on the whole subject.

She was busy shuffling papers around in front of her computers, which was odd in itself. Garcia was just not a paper person.

If she didn't have an electronic copy of whatever it was she was sorting through, then it couldn't be anything important.

The thought made him feel slightly better about interrupting her. She hadn't even noticed him standing in the doorway watching her yet.

"Good morning princess," he offered with tentative cheer.

She spun suddenly in her chair, dropping the papers she was holding and sucked in a startled breath.

Immediately, taking in her wide eyes and the rapid flutter of her heartbeat presenting itself as a flurry beneath her blouse, he felt like an ass for catching her off guard.

"Whoa, sorry baby girl." Yes, he was definitely an ass.

She did not look impressed. He should have knocked or something, his mother would be appalled.

He knelt to pick up the papers for her. Binary code was splattered across them. _Huh_. Must be related to the case.

He stood again and placed them delicately on her desk, ready to beg forgiveness.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!" she chastised agitatedly.

Pushing the begging for forgiveness to the backburner for now, he decided on a more direct approach to settle his mind, "You alright? I heard about what happened. If you need to talk—"

"I don't _need_ anything. I'm fine, okay? Why is that so difficult for everyone to believe? I'm f-i-n-e."

With his fears suddenly and unexpectedly realised, his heart seemed to still. _Oh god._ She really wasn't fine.

Backtracking, he held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay," he paused, unsure of what to say to her. "Hotch says wheels up in twenty."

Morgan stopped in the doorway on his way out and sighed.

He couldn't leave without reassuring himself that she knew she could rely on him for support.

"And Garcia..." He turned back toward her and she lifted her head. "You know I'm here for you baby girl. Always. Not because I think you need me, but because I want to be."

That seemed to deflate her anger.

She stilled, regarding him with what may have been a combination of fear and hope.

For a moment he thought he'd really gotten through to her, that she was about to spill her deep dark secrets in a cathartic display of tears and emotion and then everything would be all better again.

But life didn't work like that.

She unconsciously pressed her lips together, preventing any words from slipping out and nodded quickly before turning back to her papers and dismissing him.

He was at a loss.

A distressing thought hit him as he walked out of her office: This was the second time in their entire relationship that she hadn't responded to his 'Good Morning' with a sassy 'I'll show you a good morning, hot stuff.'

It was quickly becoming an early warning sign.

Maybe Hotch was right. Maybe she was taking this harder than he expected.

Sure, he'd snuck up on her unintentionally, but her reaction was a little unwarranted. Come to think of it, that sort of thing had been happening a lot lately. Too often.

She clearly was _not_ fine. How the hell hadn't he noticed this earlier? The evidence was there, how could he have ignored it?

Maybe she really hadn't bounced back.

* * *

Tuesday was quickly becoming one of the most infuriating days of her life.

Apparently, when Hotch asked her how she was doing after the incident in her building over the weekend, he had interpreted 'I'm fine' as meaning 'please, doubt my capabilities and ensure my teammates treat me like a child for the duration of my career.'

Sure, she was a little on edge lately, but that was no excuse for treating her like glass.

Reid was the only one with any valid reason to act cautious around her, and only because she had accidently spilt a cup of hot coffee on him this morning.

Twice.

In her defence, Reid had a tendency to enter rooms very, very quietly.

Anyone would be surprised to turn around and find him standing _right_ there.

Poor boy was acting like a kicked puppy now. She was surprised he hadn't started announcing his presence by shouting 'Garcia, I'm coming into the room! Put down the coffee.'

Aside from Reid though, the others were currently on her naughty-list. JJ had mostly been busy with press conferences, but they all managed to shoot her worried glances and offer to have a heart-to-heart.

She knew they were just trying to be supportive, and she loved them dearly for it, but she was just too bloody tired to care about making _them_ feel better right now.

Was it too much to ask to just be left alone? Had it not occurred to them that she simply didn't want to talk? That maybe it was none of their business?

Perhaps she was lying to herself.

_Wanting_ to talk didn't really figure into the picture. She just couldn't.

She'd open her mouth, but the words weren't there.

How could she really have a problem if she couldn't even describe it to herself? There were only abstract musings of life and death and the meaning of it all, dancing coyly around her head, but she couldn't seem to give them voice.

She couldn't hope to explain it to anyone, when she didn't understand it herself.

She was just so tired. Tired of being awake, tired of sleeping. Tired of getting up forty times every night to check the locks, and jumping at the slightest sound. She didn't know who she was anymore, but this was definitely _not_ her.

The case wasn't helping to lift her spirits.

Few things drove her crazier than amateur hackers.

Especially the ones that knew just enough to make her life unnecessarily difficult, but not enough to avoid being caught and slashed to bits by a psychopath. She had been sifting through old emails and encoded files all day, with minimal success.

Despite everything however, she was certain it would be the kink in her neck that was her undoing.

She rolled her shoulders and cringed. Her head throbbed. If she had to hunch over piles of papers for a minute longer her head was going to fall right off.

There was a knock at the open door.

Finally, _somebody_ learned to knock.

She knew it was Morgan without even turning around. The scent of his aftershave was light but heady, and very uniquely his.

She glanced over her shoulder, just in case.

After confirming his presence she announced, "You may enter, handsome."

Garcia was pleased to realise that she sounded only slightly agitated and exhausted; a definite improvement.

"How's it coming?" he asked as he made his way toward her, placing both of his hands on her shoulders and glancing at the monitor in front of her.

"Slowly," she admitted, watching scripts run on the screen and trying to mask her disdain.

"You're really tense," he sounded genuinely concerned. He flexed his hands, feeling the knots of muscle running through her shoulders and up her neck. "Here, lean back."

God, Morgan really was a mind reader.

She leaned into the warmth of his hands and sighed as he started to massage her shoulders.

She was still upset that he'd been treating her like a child lately. He wasn't off her list yet, but if he kept this up she could make an exception.

She'd been on the receiving end of his massages before, but she was always impressed with his skill. The man knew how to make her melt. She didn't expect her resolve to be angry to last very long.

He smoothed the silky material of her grey blouse against her shoulders and ran his hands over her tired muscles. Morgan worked his way from her shoulder blades, up to her collar bone, over the back of her neck and then back down again.

She had intended to have a nice hot bubble bath at the hotel while listening to Billy Joel belt out 'Piano Man' on her iPod to relax, but that option held no comparison to Morgan's massages.

It was akin to the sensation of having chocolate melt in her mouth.

"Mmm," she mumbled encouragingly when he increased the pressure.

Okay, he was definitely off the naughty list.

The warmth of his hands permeated her blouse, sinking into her skin and easing away the tension beneath it.

Her headache lifted almost immediately. She wasn't sure how long he rubbed her shoulders for but he must have used some sort of sorcery to achieve such results.

Garcia was so relaxed she almost nodded off. If only her thoughts could relax with her body, she might actually get some rest tonight.

He leaned over and kissed her on top of her head. She couldn't help but smile a little.

"Why don't you get some rest baby girl? It's late. Everyone else has headed back to the hotel."

"I just have a few more things to do. I'll catch a cab back."

"Promise me you'll get some sleep tonight?"

"I will," she lied.

* * *

On Wednesday it rained.

Rain wasn't quite the right word for it. The colossal downpour outside was keeping them grounded for another night, even though they all wanted nothing more than the comfort of their own beds.

An additional crime scene was uncovered and with it enough trace evidence to earn the disdain of every Lab Tech in LA.

After three days however, the Unsub had practically handed himself over to the police wrapped in shiny silver paper and a big red bow.

Honestly, she was a little disappointed.

Work provided excellent distraction. Though, if every case were this straight forward, her job would be a hell of a lot easier.

Emily unlocked the door to her hotel room with one hand while brushing out her wet, windswept hair with the other.

Garcia was already in the shower when she entered. They hadn't seen much of each other over the past few days as the case progressed, despite sharing a room.

From what she had seen, though, Emily could tell that Garcia was far from being alright.

Guiltily, she dropped onto her bed, wondering what she could do to get Garcia to talk and listening to the rain pound rhythmically against the window.

She stopped by the store earlier and picked up a movie she thought Garcia would like, but she wasn't entirely confident in her ability to get Garcia to open up.

She couldn't help but feeling that she wasn't the right person for the job.

Her teammates were some of the only people she had ever shared a close relationship with. She had better social skills than Reid, for sure, but she still didn't know how to help her get through this.

If Garcia didn't want to talk, she couldn't make her.

But if she refused to deal with the trauma of her situation, they may never get her back from that self-imposed prison she seemed trapped in.

Desperation crept into Emily's mind. They all needed Garcia back.

Seconds later Garcia opened the bathroom door, a cloud of steam following her.

She wore blue flannel pyjamas, covered in an assortment of penguins with Santa hats.

It was refreshingly typical, and for a moment Emily could almost pretend that her friend wasn't suffering.

Her exhausted features gave her away though. Emily hadn't seen her sleep more than four hours at a time since they'd been here. Every night she'd wake up thrashing in her sheets.

Sometimes Emily would have to wake her. She tried to comfort her, but Garcia would just apologise like she'd done something wrong and practically beg her to go back to bed and drop the subject.

Last night was the worst.

Emily awoke around three a.m. to a strangled but shattering scream that ripped her from her own less-than-peaceful dreams.

Her heart stopped, paused, then picked up the pace with renewed vigour as her sleep clouded mind tried to determine the source of the noise.

Instinctively she reached for her firearm on the nightstand, but stopped when she realised Garcia must be having a nightmare.

After stumbling her way over to Garcia's bedside in the dark and gently coaxing her awake, Emily's rapidly beating heart finally broke at the choked sobs coming from her. All she could do was hold her until she'd calmed enough to sleep again.

This morning Garcia acted cheerful and avoided conversation, pretending it never happened so artfully that Emily questioned whether or not it really did. They hadn't spoken about it since and Garcia seemed grateful.

Shoving over a pile of clothes, Garcia climbed into her own bed and opened her _PC World_ magazine. Afraid that this could be her last opportunity, Emily tried to initiate conversation.

"So, how's Kevin doing?"

"Fine, I guess. I broke it off."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." _Shit_, Emily lamented her choice of conversation starters.

"It was just too hard, pretending all the time. I'd wake up screaming in the middle of the night and he'd be terrified. It wasn't fair to him." She sounded so detached.

Emily didn't know how to reach out to her.

"You don't have to be alone Garcia. I know you're strong, but it's okay to need comfort sometimes."

"I don't want to talk about it anymore." Garcia returned her attention to her magazine, effectively ending the conversation.

Damn it. She'd shut down.

Knowing she had over stepped her bounds, Emily was discouraged. After quickly remembering what she had picked up from the store however, a smile played on her lips.

"Garcia," Emily began in a tentative sing-song voice after a moment, "I have a present for you."

That earned her a glance.

Emily got up and drew the surprise out of the plastic shopping bag she had tossed on the desk earlier.

"_Sex and the City_!" Emily was very proud of her idea to buy the gift and fairly certain Garcia would be pleased.

She almost expected applause, but the small yet genuine smile she received was even better.

"Have you seen it before?" Garcia inquired with renewed interest.

"No, but I've heard good things. You?"

"Once at the theatre."

Emily knew she was lying.

As she recalled, there was about a two week period of excited chatter coming from Garcia's office regarding the film at its release.

She had to have seen it more than once.

She raised an eyebrow and was offered a sigh of resignation in response.

"Okay, four times. But it's a good movie!"

"Do you want to watch it now? Or we can just channel surf if you want. Reid said there's a Discovery Channel special on stingrays tonight," she baited skilfully.

"Whatever you want, so long as it doesn't involve the stingray option."

Emily smiled triumphantly. Nothing like a little romantic comedy to lighten Garcia's mood. She popped the disc in, flicked off the lights and settled next to Garcia on her bed so that they could both see.

Two hours, thirty-one minutes and a thousand hilarious one-liners later, Emily had to share Garcia's enthusiasm. It was definitely worth the $24.99 to brighten Garcia's day.

It was almost midnight and exhaustion had begun to blur her vision.

She reached for the remote as the credits started rolling, and switched off the TV.

Darkness reigned, the only light in the room coming from passing cars on the street outside their window. They lay in the silence for a while. Emily was too comfortable to move, but she knew she should go back to her own bed.

She started to get up but was stopped by Garcia's low whisper, "I knew them, you know?"

Emily settled back down on the bed, turning onto her side so she could see.

Lying on her back, Garcia seemed to be contemplating the barely illuminated ceiling tiles. Emily waited for her to continue, but she didn't.

"Garcia..." she hesitated, unsure if it was appropriate to ask, "Who did you know?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Jacobi." She paused and Emily waited, concerned by the detachment in her voice, the resignation and barely concealed grief that danced on every syllable.

"They were always around. She held the elevator for me all the time. I mean, it's not like we were family or anything—I've lost people before, but they didn't deserve this. They didn't deserve to die over some random break in."

Emily held her breath as emotion seeped into Garcia's voice. "I just don't understand. Is life really that meaningless that it can be taken away so suddenly with no explanation at all? I just... I don't know how to live without faith that there's some sort of reason to life, a plan, some meaning bigger than ourselves. Maybe I've been naive. Maybe there are only degrees of chaos."

She turned to look at her for the first time and despite the darkness Emily was shocked at the sorrow and hopelessness in her eyes.

She scooted closer to Garcia and took the hand resting by her side, silently urging her to continue.

"I'm so tired," Garcia admitted dejectedly.

"Sleep."

"I can't. I don't want to."

"Nightmares?"

She nodded in the darkness.

"They're never the same," she sighed, her voice so quiet Emily had to strain to make out the words, "I can never prepare for them."

"Tell me?" Emily offered gently.

"Lately it's the Jacobi's. Sometimes it's the night I was shot. It plays over and over again in my head when I'm awake and it doesn't stop when I sleep, it just gets worse."

"How?" Emily whispered, afraid to break the spell that the shadows seemed to cast. Perhaps some things could only be admitted under cover of darkness.

"It's not always me that gets shot. Sometimes I see JJ in the middle of the bullpen and Battle's holding a gun to her head. In my dream, she's pregnant and scared and she's looking at me. But I'm on the other side of the glass, and I can't move, I can't even scream. I can only watch as he pulls the trigger.

"Other times it's Reid or Morgan. Or you. And sometimes I'm the one that shoots Battle. I watch him bleed to death on the front steps and I don't feel anything. Nothing. What kind of person does that make me?"

"It makes you human, Garcia."

"They aren't even real," she laughed self-deprecatingly. "When I wake up I can't even believe my mind would come up with something so horrific, even after everything that I've seen in the BAU. I'm always surprised. They're so detailed. Vivid. It's like I'm there. I can _feel_ everything."

A car passed outside, briefly illuminating the damp trails on her cheeks that she was trying so hard to contain. Emily squeezed her hand tighter.

"I don't want to see death every time I close my eyes. I don't _want_ to keep reliving it over and over and over. God! Why can't I make it stop? I feel so stupid. I just don't understand Em. Why can't I make it stop?"

Emily sighed, trying to hold herself together. "It's not that easy Garcia. It isn't your fault what happened, or what's happening now. None of it. It's going to take time to work through, and it's going to be hard, but you _can_ do it. You don't need to carry this alone. It's okay to need help sometimes. We're all here for you. You don't have to be strong for us. Let us help you get better."

Garcia sobbed and Emily's heart broke for the second time in two days. She reached over and brushed a lock of hair out of Garcia's eyes. "Do you think you can do that?" she asked gently.

Garcia nodded and Emily smiled with relief, already looking forward to the return of witty banter in the office and skirts covered with candy canes in the summertime.

She knew this was only the first step to a long recovery, but she had to start somewhere. It would take time, but now, at least, there was hope.

"I'm so tired," Garcia whispered again with a sigh.

"Will it help if I lie next to you?"

She nodded again, pulling the covers close and Emily closer.

"Don't leave, okay?"

"I'm right here, I Promise."

* * *

_End._


End file.
